


Miracles

by doomcanary



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Endgame Feels, I need to learn how to use AO3 tags properly, M/M, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Soul Stone (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-08 13:12:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18623965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomcanary/pseuds/doomcanary
Summary: "You know how you know when you love someone, Steve?"





	Miracles

Of all the things they've done and seen, over the years; of all the sunsets and glowing mornings and tired, aching shoulders and corny Christmas messages they've shared, there's one thing Bucky will never be able to forget. It's the play of firelight on Steve's skin; the quiet, perfect peace deep in his eyes when he turns to Bucky and says "Time to hit the hay."

Sometimes Bucky thinks there must be something wrong with him. Wonders why he doesn't love the miracles. The miracle that made Steve look on the outside like he does in the soul. The miracle that threw them both into the same crazy future, the hundred miracles in every fight they ever had that pushed the bullet a little too far wide, that kept the crumbling roof up until the second after they'd run out from underneath. It makes him think maybe he's a Godless heathen after all, the way his mother always told him when he'd come home too greased on a Saturday night and miss church from puking on Sunday morning.

But he can only love one thing in the world, because when he loves it's everything in him. He becomes it and he can't think or do or be anything else. And it's Steve. Steve in the morning, Steve in the sunset, Steve with golden light melting into golden skin.

They're old now. Bucky barely sleeps, these days; between serum and ordinary human aging, he spends a lot of time in chairs, and almost none in dreams. But then he barely needs to dream, when he has a world like this. Steve seems so much more human now; especially in sleep. Bucky watches him as he breathes, faint gold dusting his eyelashes, restoring his hair to the glory it used to be. He shifts a little and sighs, easing his stiffening knees; and Steve's eyes open, like he's a wireless tuned to Bucky's pain.

"Buck?" He doesn't lift his head from the pillow.

Bucky smiles, sad and slow.

"Hey," he says. And then Steve does sit up, swings his legs out and focuses on Bucky like a searchlight.

"Buck," he says. "What's wrong?"

Bucky looks at the fireplace. The ashes are long cold. And now in shadow Steve's face is no longer golden; he's a sketch of himself, a face suggested by the glimmering yellow light.

"It's time, Steve," he says.

Steve's hands find his without him even needing to look down; they know each other that well, so much time moving through the same space, dancing through the same steps.

"Buck, no," he says. "We have as long as we need."

"We've had a lifetime," says Bucky. "More." The photos on the walls are fading and yellowing now; Morgan's graduation, her parents glowing with pride. Natasha and the grandchildren, that last Christmas before she finally passed, her eyes still sly and full of secrets and alive.

Steve's hands tighten on his. He tries to frame words; it's only ever Bucky that sees this, sees the cracks. He's never been prouder of Steve than the moments when he does. It would be so easy, especially for men of their time. To become the mask; to become the officer. The captain. To always have a plan. He can't help but squeeze Steve's hands in return, his throat too full of that knowledge for a moment to speak.

That's why it was Steve, after all. Steve who was given the miracle; because he had the soul that would look like his face does, if you turned a soul to the outside. That's why Steve is the only thing Bucky can love, and why Bucky's love is too big to be just a part of him any more.

Steve looks down at their hands.

"You know we have to," says Bucky quietly.

Steve swallows.

"I just - I just wanted you to have what you deserved," he says.

"Stop," says Bucky. "You deserve this too. You're not selfish. You've given everything, over and over again. And you'll keep on giving it till there's nothing left of the world."

"Bucky - I don't-"

"Stop."

Bucky lifts their clasped hands, presses his lips to Steve's knuckles.

"You know how you know when you love someone, Steve?"

Steve looks up at him, startled.

"You know because what you want stops mattering," he says. "You know because the most important thing in the world is for them to be happy. Not for you to be."

"But -"

"Of course I've been happy, Steve. This - I never expected you to-"

"No," says Steve, and his tone stops Bucky. "No. Buck - this? It's because of that. Because of you. I can't live with myself if I don't give this to you."

Miracles. Sometimes Bucky wonders what he did to get a life so full of miracles. Sometimes he just doesn't question, and accepts the magic. He gets to be in Steve Rogers's universe-encompassing miracle of a heart.

But the thing about miracles is that they wash away your expectations like a flood. Bucky's love for Steve consumes him - but Steve is a miracle, and he can love Bucky just as much as Bucky loves him, and still have room for the whole world in there as well.

More than the whole world.

He looks over at the dresser, at the rough-hewn form that rests on it; at the soft and steady glow that comes from it. Wonders again if he's imagining it, or whether the Soul Stone always glows a little brighter when Steve is nearby.

Tomorrow, when the sun has scorched the compromise out of the sky, when the light is hard and the road ahead is endless; tomorrow he will feel the years unspool, feel the weight of his armour settle around him. Tomorrow the kick in his heart rate as worn leather couches sift out into air. He remembers for a moment that first wild swoop of panic, as the battlefield froze around him; the terror crushing his chest like jaws. _Is this what it's like to finally die?_

And then the miracle; always his miracle. Steve's gentle voice, and for the first time the touch of his hand - whole, unbloodied, clean at last of war - for the first time, the touch of his miracle's hand on his cheek.

Tomorrow, he will return to his place at battle's side. Tomorrow, he will let his miracle go, because there's someone else this miracle must happen to as well.

He stands, and walks around the bed; pulls back the blanket and slides in. Always, always at Steve's side.

"Buck?" He can see the puzzled crease in Steve's forehead without needing light; has been able to see it since 1935.

"It's okay, Steve," he says. "Everything is going to be all right."


End file.
